Page 5 of Her Highlander’s Darkest Temptation (Highlanders of Cadney #14)

She had always taken the last of whatever was left in the caravan cook pots - too wary of drawing attention to try and take food earlier, especially not with the glowers and whispers that followed her for ‘eating what she’d not earned through labor’.

“An’ the last proper sleep?”

“I… cannot say.” Sleeping on the ground was difficult for her, and even when she was permitted to take a bed in the wagons, the hard planks made for a poor and restless slumber.

The healer clicked her tongue. “Och, ‘tis what I thought. Ye’ve nae had enough sleep or food o’ late, an’ on top o’ the injury, yer mind’s so hazed ‘tis a wonder ye can even understan’ what the laird is askin’ ye. Especially as yer nae a Highlander, with that odd accent o’ yers.”

The healer began to spread an ointment on her side, and Lyida recognized it as a bruise balm, though not all the scents were familiar to her.

Likely, the healer used different herbs than the ones she knew from home.

When that was done, she wrapped a clean bandage around Lydia’s ribs and helped her back into a skirt and blouse that she produced from a cupboard.

“Yer clothing’s yer own, but ‘tis so filthy it needs a good washin’ afore I have it back tae ye. These will fit well enough.”

The garments were loose, but Lydia donned them with relief, glad to finally have something clean after over a fortnight wearing the same outfit and scarcely able to even wash the worst of the dirt from it.

She was just finishing with the laces of the bodice, her hands shaking with weariness, when the door to the healer’s cottage banged open and two men strode it.

The first stalked up to Laird Ranald with a scowl, and punched him hard on the shoulder. “Donall, ye bloody fool! What the devil were ye thinkin’, goin’ riding alone? I would have come with ye if ye’d asked.”

Laird Ranald scowled, though Lydia thought there was a hint of chagrin in his expression as he responded. “I thought ‘twas safe enough. Borders have been quiet…”

“An ye ken as well as I that quiet borders dinnae mean safe. Just means tha’ trouble hasnae made itself kent yet.” The man shook his head. “An’ now ye’re injured…”

“’Tis naething, Alex….”

“Bollocks. Ye’re bleeding worse than a hog at harvest butcherin’ time.” The man switched his glare to the healer. “Och, Evelyn, did he tell ye nae tae bother with him again? Because ye ought tae be clouting him round the ears an’ putting him on a stool, nae listenin’ tae him.”

Laird Ranald’s scowl deepened. “There was a lass injured as well. I told Evelyn tae see tae her first.”

Alex and the other man exchanged a look that Lydia was far too weary to guess the meaning of, then the other man stepped forward. “Me laird, nae tae be forward… but who is yer companion?”

“Never mind. Ye can tell us while Evelyn sees tae that bloody gash in yer side.” Alex pointed to the rent shirt and the blood still seeping across it.

The second man looked, and his eyes widened. “Aye. Me laird, ye should have tha’ seen tae at once.”

Laird Ranald shrugged his broad shoulders. “’Tis only a cut, Ewan…”

“’Tis nae only anything, the way ‘tis bleeding.” The second man stepped closer and put a hand on his laird’s shoulder, to push him firmly toward a chair. “As yer second-in-command, I insist ye let Evelyn tend the wound and stitch it.”

“Ewan…”

“Let the healer mend ye, or I’ll pin ye down, an’ Ewan and I will dae it meself. An’ ye ken well enough tha’ I dinnae have Evelyn’s gentleness, nor skill.” Alex glared at the laird and crossed his arms.

Laird Ranald—Donall Ranald, Lydia reminded herself—clenched his jaw so tightly she fancied she could hear his teeth grinding from where she sat. He did, however, take the seat his second-in-command had urged him to take. “Fine.”

He undid his cloak and set it aside, removed the sash and cross belt he wore, then pulled his shirt free of the waist of his leggings and dragged it over his head, before tossing the ruined garment onto the healer’s table.

Then he turned and raised his arms. “Dae whatever ye need, an’ be quick about it. ”

Lydia stared.

She had seen her rescuer was well-built and strong, but even knowing that, she was still unprepared for the sight of his naked torso.

Laird Ranald was lean, and not a bit of excess flesh marred the lines of his well-defined muscles underneath the skin.

The sinews and tendons of his wrists were clearly visible, flexing smoothly under the skin with every movement of his strong, callused hands.

His forearms and upper arms were defined by smooth swells of muscles that rippled like water with every shift of his broad, powerful shoulders.

His chest was an almost solid mass of muscles, his masculine nipples tight and hard on the broad expanse of tanned skin, and his abdomen looked so firm and taut she imagined that a blow would both bruise her hands and resonate like a drum-beat.

Lines of bold, dark ink stretched across shoulders, chest, and waist, an intricate tracing that linked symbols that meant nothing to her.

With a start, she realized the cut angled just below one such symbol, a flower surrounded by a symbol that looked like a crest, though it was one she didn’t recognize.

There were scars, many of them, but the seeming imperfection only added to the image of power and confidence he exuded, and made him seem more intriguing.

More intriguing, and more attractive. Lydia felt her mouth go dry and her face burn as she realized that she had been staring, unabashedly, at a half-naked man for far longer than she should have.

Her blush deepened and she looked hurriedly away, focusing on Evelyn as the healer gathered needle, fine thread, hot water, clean cloths, and bandages.

Then the healer returned to Laird Ranald’s side, and she found herself watching the man, once again, while Evelyn cleaned and stitched the deep cut he’d taken while defending her.

Lydia tried to focus on the healer’s technique, to remind herself that such a skill was valuable, and that combined with the herb lore she’d studied before, she might learn enough to serve as a healer once she left.

But maintaining her concentration was difficult.

Her gaze kept traveling across the tattoos and scars that adorned Donall Ranald’s torso, wondering at the stories behind them.

With an effort, she forced herself to look at his face.

His jaw was clenched, and his hands were tight fists.

With a start, she realized he had not asked for a pain potion, nor for something to bite while the healer worked.

And now he sat, not making a sound, as she worked, despite how painful it must have been.

The only indication that he even noticed the healer’s ministrations was the fine sweat that stood out across his brow and dampened his wild blond hair.

The stoic expression on his face made her heart twist in sympathy, even as she wondered where and why he had learned to endure such discomfort. Her gaze drifted back to the scars that marked his arms and torso, wondering once more at the stories behind the markings that adorned his frame.

Laird Ranald turned to look at her then, green eyes dark and brow furrowed. Lydia’s face heated and she turned away quickly, her cheeks turning red as hearth coals as she realized she’d been caught staring.

Och, the lass is a shy one. Mayhap tha’s why she didnae speak much when I questioned her earlier.

It seemed odd that a serving maid would be so modest, but Donall brushed it aside.

He had no idea how old she was, nor what her life had been before she’d come wandering onto his lands - perhaps she was still a maiden.

And if she’d been a maid for a lady as he suspected, then perhaps she was unused to the sight of men in any state of undress.

Whatever the reason for her blushes, it wasn’t as if he cared that she’d been staring.

He was used to stares - the tattoos and scars that covered him caught attention, and he’d stopped being concerned about the markings and how others might look at them long ago.

If she wished to gape at him, it was no surprise or concern of his.

Ewan and Alex waited for Evelyn to finish before speaking - they both knew he would refuse to answer them until the stitching was done.

He never made a sound when he had wounds to be tended to.

It was a habit he’d learned the hard way during his years in the king’s gaol, and one he was loathe to give up.

Making a sound was a sign of weakness, and he refused to be weak.

Weakness made you a target - he’d learned that lesson as well during his years in prison.

Finally, the wound was closed. Evelyn applied a salve to keep infection from setting in, and another to ease the pain, then wrapped a linen bandage around his torso and cinched it tight.

Donall grunted when she’d pulled it snug enough to suit him, then took the shirt she handed him and tugged it over his head. “Are ye satisfied now?”

Ewan grimaced. “I would be satisfied if I kent ye hadnae ridden half the moors with a bleedin’ wound, me laird. An’ happier still if I kent why ye wound up injured, an who it is ye’ve brought back with ye.”

“I rode out tae see if I could meet with the servants Corvin said he’d hired from the Lowlands - I wanted tae get the measure o’ them. There was an… incident.” Alex opened his mouth, no doubt to ask for more information, and Donall silenced him with a slight shake of his head.

He would tell both men the full story later, but not here, where it might be overheard. “As fer the lass… this is Lydia. She was separated from her travelin’ companions - the caravan I was tae meet, I think, so I brought her back with me. She’s tae be me new maid.” He considered.